


Let Me Help You

by talkingtothesky



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bittersweet, Established Relationship, M/M, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 15:42:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5133074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/pseuds/talkingtothesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold falls asleep with his head in John's lap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Help You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [potc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/potc/gifts).



The knock on his door came at two in the morning. Harold was lying on his bed staring at the ceiling. His first instinct was to assume that his cover had somehow been blown and that Samaritan operatives were about to kick their way in and either abduct or destroy him.  
  
A moment later there was a familiar voice, and that was better but still potentially bad. “Harold?”  
  
Harold pushed himself up from the bed with some effort, and trudged down the hallway. He checked through the peephole, just to be sure no-one had a gun to John’s head, and then opened the door. “Detective, what are you doing here?”  
  
John was leaning in the doorway, one fist raised, ready to knock again. He let it fall when he saw Harold, put a finger to his own lips and brushed past him without asking. Harold closed the door and bolted it. Reese was doing a thorough sweep of the place on autopilot while Harold stood there awkwardly in his pajamas, watching him. Once John was satisfied there were no bugs, he stood close and rested his hands on Harold’s shoulders. “Are you okay? Root said you were having trouble.” A muscle in John’s cheek twitched and Harold understood someone was talking to him.  
  
“What is she saying?”  
  
John nodded and muttered “Thanks,” and then turned off his phone. “She says you’re having trouble sleeping.”  
  
Harold scoffed, the embarrassment barely touching the sides of his exhaustion. At this moment in time, he simply didn’t have the energy to care that Miss Groves and the Machine frequently discussed his welfare, and apparently considered it serious enough to inform John. “That’s hardly surprising, is it.”  
  
John rubbed his thumb across his own cheek. He looked exhausted as well. “No, but it is dangerous. We need you healthy and alert, Harold.”  
  
“Thank you for your concern, John, but your presence here is not conducive to maintaining our safety.”  
  
John laughed, hollowly. The corner of his mouth quirked in what Harold guessed was meant to be a smile, but his eyes were unacceptably sad. His hands slid off Harold’s shoulders, down his arms until he was loosely intertwining their fingers. “I can help you,” he whispered, the desperation clear in his voice.  
  
Harold forced himself to slip out of John’s grasp. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Avoiding looking at him, he turned away and headed for his room again. “Sorry you’ve had a wasted journey. I’ll get back to attempting to sleep now.”  
  
John didn’t follow him, but his voice did. “You keep pushing me away, Harold.”  
  
“For both our sakes.” He didn’t quite shut the bedroom door behind himself, leaving it slightly ajar. He wanted to offer John the couch, to save him driving all the way back to Riley’s place at this hour, but the words were getting stuck in his throat.  
  
John didn’t seem to be having the same problem. Apparently his therapist was doing a good job at getting him to open up about his feelings. “I don’t want you to protect me like this. I know you’re thinking it’ll be easier on both of us if we get some distance. I understand that. I did it before, to Jessica. And then she died and I’d have given anything to kiss her again. If I’m going to die tomorrow I’d prefer to do it knowing I spent all the time I could with you.”  
  
Harold grit his teeth, reminded of Grace and Joss. He wholeheartedly preferred it back when John was being stoic and uncommunicative, he decided. Not bothering to turn out the light, Harold ignored him and got into bed, curled up on his side as tightly as his damaged hip would allow. He knew he was being unspeakably rude, but there was another, crueler part of him that just wanted John to go, leave him to worry and think and try to plan a way out of this war. A way to win it, even, without risking unbearable casualties. He had to think logically, consider their options like the Machine calculating probabilities, and he couldn’t do that with John’s love clouding his vision.  
  
But John didn’t care about any of that. He was slowly opening the door with his shoulder, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Do you really want me to go?” He tried again, hoarsely, and this time Harold looked at him before he closed his eyes. He released his grip on the pillow and let his arm stretch out towards John, the back of his hand flopping down across the empty side of the bed. John’s side, though he hadn’t slept next to him since Finch became Whistler.  
  
“Don’t crumple your suit,” he managed, thankful that it was all John needed him to say. He took off everything but his boxer briefs and draped his clothes over a spare rail in Whistler’s meager closet. Harold lay there and waited for him, listless and aching with guilt. He roused a little when John slid into bed, aiming for a simple, contrite kiss, but John didn’t lie down immediately. Instead he took Harold’s outstretched hand and turned it over, let it curl around John’s left thigh. Sitting back against the pillows, he gently tugged at the back of Harold’s top and coaxed at his shoulder blades until Harold got the message and transferred his head to John’s lap. They’d never done this - it was always Harold reading to John, petting his hair as he drifted. But now it was John’s turn to offer comfort and reassurance, and rather than waste any more energy being affronted or cautious, Harold accepted this for the precious gift that it was.  
  
He couldn’t see John’s face like this, and maybe that was for the best. John stroked Harold’s hand and his shoulders, his arm, traced the pad of his thumb down a sideburn. Shortly after that he carefully removed Harold’s glasses. Harold protested, not ready to feel even more helpless without them, not ready for sleep or the nightmares of John or Sameen or Bear or Root or Joss or Grace or Nathan bleeding out before him that sleep would surely bring.  
  
But John said “Shhh, Finch, I’m here, you’re safe,” and gave him plenty of warning before he turned out the light.  
  
Harold clung to him in the dark. “I’m scared, John. I can’t lose you.”  
  
“I know. I am, too. But I trust you.”  
  
John’s lap was warm and solid, and so was the hand ruffling Harold’s spiky hair. Harold could feel himself sliding under, the pull of exhaustion getting him right behind the eyes. He poked weakly at John’s hip, thinking vaguely that John ought to lie down. “You need sleep too.”  
  
John’s legs stretched a little, shifting himself down as much as he could without jostling Harold. “I’ll wake you in a couple hours, we can take shifts,” he offered, sounding fond and amused. Harold wanted to argue, but he was too heavy to speak, let alone move.  
  
He couldn’t remember being aware of anything after that.


End file.
